


Close and Yet Far Away

by Dichotomous_Dragon, little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Meta, pov swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5467031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dichotomous_Dragon/pseuds/Dichotomous_Dragon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas reflects on a blood-stained diary, on things long gone and yet oddly nearby.  The Iron Bull wonders. Cole tries to help. Nothing is ever simple and weighing old decisions is no exception.</p>
<p>(This is our work pinch-hitting for the Dragon Age Reverse Big-Bang)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close and Yet Far Away

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the work of Hazy Hades (link forthcoming!) for the Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang! 
> 
> All my <3s goes to [The Fabulous Little_Abyss!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss) I just tweaked and posted, she is a doll and helped me out when the muse called in dead! Go read her stuff (**cough** especially 'Wastelands' **cough)
> 
> The codex entry mentioned in the fic can be found here:[The Blood-Spotted Venatori Diary](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Blood-Spotted_Venatori_Diary)

Deep shadows stretch across the nighttime desert. Darkness and light; reveal and obscure. Solas narrows his eyes, looks out over the dunes to the west, away from the rising moon. There is something, something out there, toward the horizon. He breathes deep, concentrating all his essence toward the spot, sensing, stretching, allowing his mind to focus in, to touch. It is a place. A place of power, somewhere… somewhere he has been before, perhaps. There are always echoes from before, quiet things that speak to him in whispers. This is something else.

The sand slips softly over his boots, driven down the incline of the dune by a cold wind. He feels his physical self, knows it is there, but he is alive to so much more; the creatures that stalk their prey in the night, the flowers that only bloom under cover of darkness. Cole, his mind, bright and open. He is nearby, Solas can feel him, can indeed always feel him. And still, this darkling echo within, this call to the ancient place, somewhere… somewhere _other._

Solas had read the diary, read it in its entirety in one afternoon, powerless to stop his hands from turning the pages. His impression of the mage who had written it had moved from scorn to wonder to horror. Quite aside from the references to the spirits of the Fade as _demons_ , the abrupt shifts in the handwriting and language had disturbed him greatly. Solas knows the Fade, has traversed it, seen its residents in their many forms. And still, he believes he would proceed with caution should a spirit, any spirit, request to reside in his physical form. Absentmindedly, he rubs at the portion of wolf-jaw around his neck. The wind is cool on his face as the phrase _even though it would be easy here, in a place where the Veil has grown so thin_ rises in his mind, like a speck of ash in the breeze. It would be easy here, or anywhere that the Rifts have been as persistent as they are here. The wind goes suddenly from cool to warm, and it recalls him to himself. It feels as though something, someone, has blown across his skin; that sense of familiarity and awakening sends a delighted shiver over his exposed flesh. So easy, he hears again, as if from outside himself. A fanged promise.

The Venatori are but the latest in a tidal sweep of misunderstanding and hatred. With the subjugation of the Elvhenan, great Elven civilization of centuries before, the People have, at various stages throughout history, been enslaved, their power and autonomy crushed, brutally and cruelly stripped of their knowledge and beliefs. Solas knows this better than most-indeed, he knows it better than any other- but still he hopes, and presses, and shares. Despite this, he still finds the resistance to the knowledge that he holds appalling in its shortsightedness. If only there was a way to return the Elvhen to their rightful place, restore the knowledge that was once the birthright of all elves. He knows that, whatever the cost or consequence, if there was a way, he would not flinch from it. What remains of his kin, these shadows of what the Elvhenan once were...they may not follow him, may not believe him, may think him a deceiver, but he alone knows what once was, and could be again. They will remember, in time.

Oh, he expects it from the quicklings. The shemlen lead short, pointless lives for the most part, and have no interest in anything other than their own lusts and novelties. Even amongst the mages, even amongst those that profess to be interested in magic purely for its own sake, he has been met with derision. From the qunari, or those present in the Inquisition, he is met with fear - but then that is to be expected too. While he admits that he is disappointed that the Vashoth Inquisitor has met him with increased concern and suspicion, he supposes it is in their nature and scolds himself for being surprised. It is stupid, and stubborn, and it would enrage him if he were a younger man. If he did not know what he knows now. 

He wonders if the Evanuris knew of this place, if they had visited here. The moonlight shows him a stark landscape, sere and somehow brittle. The four of them travel at night only. In the daylight hours the light of the sun shines far too brightly, the heat impossible to deal with. Beyond that, the avoidance of some of the more predatory lifeforms is easier by dark. The only features that they have encountered of any interest so far in the landscape is the ruins of dwarven settlements, among which the Venatori seem to be looking for something. And there it is, that circling back of his mind; the Venatori, working in service to this Corypheus, a human seeking to exploit knowledge which he does not fully understand. Solas doubts that Corypheus would care to seek knowledge, his pride of purpose blinding him to the true value of the foci he desires, and at that thought a small voice whispers, _you sound like Daern’thal, he of spite, his bitter grip of poison. Someone I used to know_. The name sounds familiar, as does the whisper, slow and sweet, almost beguiling. 

_Who are you?_ Solas asks of the voice, and gets only laughter in return.

The Veil is thin here, the Venatori had been right about that at least. With the Veil so nebulous it might shiver apart at any moment, anything could come through it. The name that had been whispered - Daern’thal - is one he had dreamed of, years before all this began. He was walking, he recalls now, in a glade somewhere southeast of Redcliffe. A profound desire to touch the Fade had come over him, and so he had found a secluded bower and laid himself down. Almost instantly, he had left his body, and was walking the warped, distorted impression of the self-same glade that he had just left. However, he was not walking in his human form - no, he had been… in the form of a great wolf, and the world had been alive with scent. _Life_ , the vines overhead had told him, the smell of trees and grasses crushed and bright under his feet, inside his nose. He had stretched luxuriously back on his haunches, feeling the crackle of tendons, unsheathed wicked claws. And then, all he could smell was a bleak, acrid stench all around him. It was not death - death is a clean smell, even his wolf-self knew that this was a smell of wrongness, bitter and twisted. _Have you come to save us?_ a voice had whispered into the dream-glade, and he had laughed. A form rose from the ground before him, far taller, far broader than the voice would suggest. He suspected it was a shadow, a shade, something that had not yet reached its full potential. The form clenched the fists on one of its multiple arms - he sees the tips of each of its nine fingers are capped with a vicious looking talon. _When did I ever tell you I would save you?_ he had asked the monstrous form before him, and then reminded it, _I am named Betrayer_.

**_Betrayer. Betrayer of all_** , other forms, risen behind the first had muttered. He sees a slight form, pale and cadaverous, the pale green light shining off wicked teeth. _Anaris_ , he thinks, and then a tall beast with three heads growls horribly. He turns his yellow gaze on it, baring his teeth, and the thing shrinks back slightly. _Geldauran_ , he laughs, addressing the three-headed creature, _I never suspected you to be such a coward_.

The three-headed creature rears up suddenly, spits at him. He laughs again, feeling exultant, as if losing everything had been the greatest gift. These creatures, these Forgotten Ones, what are they to him, the Dread Wolf? _I am he that inspires terror in the hearts of the People_ , he tells them as a savage joy bursts through him, _I am he that wreaked havoc in the home of the Gods. Yea, behold the Betrayer. It was I, I who locked the gates behind myself, I who fooled the Creators into binding themselves behind the Veil. And I did the same to you, and you never suspected me. Woe unto you, fools, for you deserve to be forgotten. The world is mine, the People are mine, to do with as I will_. He feels his mouth stretch into a grin, mouth stretching, tongue lolling. And he laughs, oh how he laughs, as the Forgotten Ones howl their torment.

The dreaming had faded then. Solas had recovered himself, feeling dazed and unsure. He was uncertain of where the vision had come from, but as he had risen from the bower, a small, dark thing had dropped onto the ground beside him. Bending down, he had picked it up, stared at it. It was a dark fragment of bone; from the looks of it, from some kind of predator. _A wolf_ , he had thought at the time, and shivered.

He shivers now in the cold light of the moon. The cool breeze has turned stronger, and the moon is beginning its long march across the horizon. He feels the benign disinterest of Cole, his benevolent presence; and then he hears his name. “Hey, Solas! Thedas to Solas!” The Iron Bull could never be accused of subtlety, that is for certain. Solas sighs, directing his gaze toward the Qunari. The brute stands on the crest of a dune, limned in the bleak silver light. He is smiling, of course, but Solas knows the thoughts which can be concealed behind a smiling face are not always pleasant. He waves, begins to crest the rise of the dune toward the rest of the party.

“Everything alright in that head of yours?” the Bull asks. Again his voice is casual, far more so than the glint in that single eye belies.

“There is no need for concern, I am simply thinking,” his voice has no more inflection than the Bull’s, but then, he has this spy bested by many a year of experience. “The Veil is thin here.”

“They pull at him, whispers and wanting, forlorn and Forgotten,” Cole nods. The Bull lets his eye drift to the spirit and Solas, Solas quiets the surge of memory fueling Cole’s exposition. “They press and pull, unraveling the edges that bind them. Separated, sequestered, strong but silent. Except you can hear them.” Solas does not let the cringe manifest on his face, but it is a near thing. It is harder to block Cole’s perception when he, too can feel and hear so much more readily in these places where the Fade seeps through. Cole’s eyes are overbright, watery blue irises glowing ethereal in the moonlight. He almost resembles those whose voices he’s echoing. Solas smiles at him, nods. “Indeed I can.” His boots sink into the soft sand, and he feel’s the Iron Bull’s gaze still on him, weighing him down. The fear that the mercenary has of magic will be his undoing here, and Solas will exploit the terror ingrained in him to divert his inquiring mind as much as he can. “Cole, tell me, when you remember the Fade, what occurs to you?”

The response is predictable. As Cole looks puzzled, the Iron Bull narrows his eye very slightly, and licks his bottom lip. All discussions of the Fade, and magic, leave him incomprehensibly nervous. Still, he has been taught from birth to fear and hate it, and Solas nods seriously, looking at Cole even as he watches Bull, focusing the surface of his mind on Cole’s words, as he silently exalts when Bull turns away with a snort. 

\--------

But even as the Bull turns away, he doesn’t stop thinking. He hunts for clues with his ears, listens to the cadences hidden in Solas voice, hunts for a truth which might be hidden under words or allusions. The moon is full on the horizon, and though he appears to be watching the Inquisitor hunting among the ruins they are searching, the Iron Bull is thinking, searching.

There has been something about Solas ever since they had met, way back in Haven. Shit, a lot of water under the bridge since then, but not that much time has really passed. The Bull knows that in his line of work, both as a merc and as a spy, a healthy disregard for boundaries is necessary. But with Solas, it’s not so much that the boundaries are impenetrable, it's that there is nothing but boundary. Oh, sure, he’s slipped a couple of times. He obviously feels strongly against the Qun, but not for the same reasons as other mages might; it seems to be the perceived lack of choice that Solas takes issue with. Bull smirks slightly - there is no such thing as a lack of choice. Always, there is choice; live or die, eat or starve, do or do not. He had played at frustration when Solas had baited him about the correlation between viddathari and abominations, back when they had been clearing out the Hinterlands, but he could feel only a sort of intellectual pride from the elf, rather than any kind of relish in the metaphor. It had not escaped his notice, however, how quickly Solas had diverted the conversation into a channel which would end in an argument, how adroitly he had pivoted away from answering Bull’s question - which was about how Solas managed in the Fade, why he persisted in visiting it so frequently, and how he got along with its denizens. 

Bull cannot help his fascination with the Fade, and things of magic, but it is the same fascination with which a surgeon regards a suppurating wound. That is, he regards the knowledge that Solas holds as necessary, even vital to aid the Inquisition’s cause, but is not yet sure if it is something which he could ever claim to be entirely comfortable with. Even Dorian laughs at him for the way he still cringes at the meekest of spells, but now that is more for show (and the bright shine of Dorian’s laughter) than it is anything else. Bull draws in a breath of the cool night air, waves to the Inquisitor and gives the all clear signal. He hears Cole’s voice, raised slightly, as if in confusion, but does not turn around. He listens carefully, but Solas and Cole have moved out of earshot; whether by accident or design, he cannot decide.

When he had seen Solas with the little book which the Inquisitor had picked up on their travels through the Wastes, he had noted it mentally, and gone back to sharpening his weapon. That night, carefully, while on watch, the Bull had drawn the small, leather-bound book out of the Inquisitor’s pack, and sat reading it by moonlight. The little book was a diary, written by some half-assed Venatori. Some serious bad shit in this guys head, surely, because the entries are written in two different hands - almost as if two different entities were doing the writing. One portion, whose language begins halting and petulant, is a slim, confident style. The hand that wrote it was steady, education apparent in the smooth, sloping curves of the letters. The second hand is a mere scrawl, sometimes almost completely illegible, the ink smeared and bleeding at the edges, the haste with which it was written surely the cause of the way the quill has gouged into the parchment in places. The Iron Bull studies it, all the time wondering at Solas’s interest. Because the look on his face was definitely of interest: the kind of morbid fascination that one gets when one sees one's own face in the mirror and does not recognize it.

There are phrases that leap out at the Bull, as he reads: _Even though it would be so easy here, in a place where the Veil has grown so thin_ , clangs and echoes in his head, so reminiscent it is of Solas’s near-constant refrain. The diary seems to be speaking of a mage’s attempt to summon a demon to augment its power. Surely that cannot be Solas’s aim? The mage is already powerful, and he eschews any idea of personal gain, doesn’t seem to have any political aim to further. If it were Vivienne or Dorian reading the diary, taking such an interest in it, then Bull might be worried. But as it is, Solas seems to have no politics, seems almost disinterested in the current situation, apart from maintaining his benign presence and lending aid.

But still, there is something, something in the way that as he had read, Solas’ hand had gone to the portion of wolf-jaw around his neck, caressing, fondling it, as if looking for comfort. It was the gesture of a man who, when reading the letters of his wife, touches his wedding band. Sacred. Implying a commitment greater than the boundaries of death would allow. Bull narrows his eye as he recalls that look on Solas’s face, the twisting, turning motions of his fingers. He gazes at the moon, bright, white, and larger than he has seen it anywhere else in Thedas. 

Suddenly, a thought occurs to him, along with a scrawled sentence in the diary. _But I must not rush. Tempting as it is_. The long game. Solas, whatever his game might be, is playing the long game, carving out opportunities for himself over time, creating inroads into the Inquisition for… what? A network of spies? Saboteurs? Bull almost laughs to himself, clenches his fist around the handle of his weapon and then frowns. There is something, _something_ here, if only, if only he could see what Solas stood to gain from this. What is the point if there is no gain? 

“There is none, The Iron Bull,” Cole says at his elbow, and Bull snorts laughter. He puts a hand out, almost meaning to hug the boy by the slim shoulders, and then resists the urge, bringing the hand up to scratch under the base of one horn. He wonders what Cole knows of Solas, wonders what he could tell him. “Could and would, would or should, The Iron Bull. I don’t know and I do. If you ask, maybe I could help that way?”

“Cole.” Bull says the word slowly, thoughtfully. He’s not sure if he would place the boy at risk from Solas by asking him directly, and with Solas only over the crest of the next dune, not quite out of earshot. Cole peers up at him, translucent, milky eyes seemingly fixed on a point just to the left of Bull’s shoulder. “Cole,” Bull repeats, “What do you know?”

“Nothin’,” Cole begins, watery eyes gone hazy. He hears the word out loud and retries, “Not nothing, but not enough.” A pause then as tries to imagine how to say it, to piece the puzzle into words the Iron Bull will follow. “Four legs and two, teeth sharp either way. Blending but not binding; his fate is _not mine_ , similar though they may be.” Cole tilts his head, seems to think, and then tells Bull, “The Veil is thin here. They can touch each other here, tangle and twist until old lines blur. The other won’t come to him, but it’s trying. The old one.”

“The… old one?” The only _old one_ that Bull can think of is the Elder One, Corypheus, but that would be… something Cole had said earlier recurs to him, _whispers and wanting, forlorn and Forgotten_ , but devoid of context it means nothing, less than nothing. Bull sighs, and Cole looks at him hopefully, then sighs himself and says, “I made the tangle worse. I cannot cut it, The Iron Bull. I cannot, and you cannot, and he will not.” Cole looks down the hill then, down toward where Solas is standing at the bottom of the dune, talking with the Inquisitor. As Bull follows Cole’s gaze, Solas looks up sharply, toward them. However, when Bull waves cheerily at him, he looks back at the Inquisitor. Bull narrows his eye, and says to Cole, “Are you worried he’ll hurt you? Hurt any of us?”

Cole is silent. “He will hurt, but he’ll help first. And the hurt… much depends, it’s not…” He shakes his head, thinking, then looks at Bull and lets the stuttering cadance fall apart. “I’m sorry. I can’t see what might be, only what is and has been. Foil, foiled, fighting each other all the while. Using, used. The old one is using him, and he’s using the old one. He wants what the old one can give him, wants it desperately, but… he hasn’t made up his mind.” Cole’s shoulders slump, and he repeats, “I’m sorry. I made it worse.”

“No, no you didn’t, Cole. You’re doing great, kid.” And somewhat to Bull’s own surprise, he means it. Cole is indeed doing better, piecing thoughts into intelligible ones and words into less-than-puzzles, at least sometimes. 

Before he joined the Inquisition, Bull would have laughed at the idea of having such great affection for… whatever it is that Cole might be. But knowing him, knowing how pure his intentions are, he cannot help but like him. The Bull is confused and a little frustrated, but he smiles, and Cole smiles back.

\--------

the smile THE IRON BULL gives him is so brightly brittle it is like glass. bright, bright, bright like the moon, bright like a blade in the dark, bright like the shine of grey eyes gleaming, laughter in the sunshine, it was under the tree that time, in the grass smelt so sweet, the colours, oh! the touch of silk rent and sweat-slicked. sweet moments of gladness out of night, out of madness and blood. THE IRON BULL, the laughter at the cows made of iron; now of iron, now of skin, not knowing why, why he does not feel worse about what lives inside him? a question for another time. cole hopes he remembers to ask him later.

the smile is fake even to his eye and cole fears he has hindered. he wanted to help but it is hard to, hard to say the words, to find the meanings behind the pictures of dreams, all swirling and shaded inside of SOLAS. he can say what he means without them understanding, but THE IRON BULL needs to understand, wants to. coles wants to, too, but cole cannot help him. not yet. still not sure, never really sure how much to say. how much is private and how much is real and how much is dreams and how much hurting can help.  
can hurting even help? 

he thinks so. the INQUISITOR wants him to stay, in spite of the women in tall hats and what they say he is. he wonders if it is true, if it real is that he is demon, that he is abomination, not right. the one with the red heart, the one called SERA, she is the one who dreams the future and lives only for the present, she hates him, he knows. she fears him. he does not want her fear, but he cannot heal her hurt. this thing, this thing that wants SOLAS, he is hurt, deep within, like SERA, but not, no not like SERA - he is too bleak, too savage. cole has touched his mind, this DREAD WOLF, this BETRAYER, and it was frightening. the thing, the WOLF had turned, and cole had retreated, running, running, slipshod and away, but he knows the DREAD WOLF saw him. there is old pain, and the shadows forgotten from dreams too real to touch, but here, oh, here is what the WOLF wants, here is what can change. 

SOLAS wants change too. wants it more than he wants anything else. what does cole see, when he looks into SOLAS? the same old pain the BETRAYER harbours, but confusion too, and pride. pride over all things, and the confusion that comes with it. SOLAS knows that what he has done has never been done before - the journeying through, beyond the self, into dreams, into the very fade itself at will, his will, his desire sending him on, back, up. He is older than his years, has attained a degree of

_(apotheosis)_

that word, what does it mean? it arrives in his head unbidden, in the only voice he really trusts, the voice which helps him help, which had helped him. he looks at SOLAS, wondering. cole’s body draws in its breath sharply, it still feels strange to breathe. his body had forgotten how. 

_(concentrate)_  
_**!touch!** _

the voice tells him again, and so he reaches his mind forwards, into SOLAS, where he sees a book, writing on the page, open on his knees, the winding wolf-bone from the dream between fingers, the two writing as one. _i know what this is_! he thinks, and then his companion shows him the mage behind the diary, twisted, broken, swollen with pride. pride. pride it is the enemy here, pride is the condition, pride is his name, it is his name, _oh what am i to do_? he almost cries aloud, but his companion 

_(wait)_  
_(watch)_

stops him, takes his mind and makes the panic gone. he thinks he knows how he can help now; he can stay, wait and watch as his companion has suggested. he does not know if he can help SOLAS: maybe there is no way to help him now. 

cole breathes again. THE IRON BULL has gone down the slope of the dune, towards the ruins, following the INQUISITOR and SOLAS. cole stands on the crest of the dune, looking out onto the lunar landscape of the nighttime desert, waiting, watching as his companion has told him to do. he would do anything to bring this to an end, a peaceful end, to help the INQUISITOR mold a new world out of the ashes of pride and hate. he smiles, the bright white of the moonlight shining in his pallid eyes, and then sighs. out of blood, it is always out of blood that a new thing must rise - the young come from blood and pain, and a new world is no different. that is how SOLAS sees it. a new world. not for him, no. for the people, even as they scorn his knowledge, even as they deny the power of their true selves. wait. watch. help where he can. that is all he can do.

\--------

Adaar can nearly hear it, in the stillness: the companions she’s brought are deafening, their thoughts loud in the still, dry air. She can’t hear them of course, she’s not Cole, but she can tell from the short snatches of conversation that rise and die as quickly as the scant breezes here that things are terse. Part of her starts to worry but then, immediately, she remembers who they are and where they’ve been and all they have yet to do.

She shakes her head and presses on, letting her own thoughts slide away like the grains of sand underfoot. 

\-------

In the nighttime desert, flowers bloom. Wars are won and lost, there in the darkness, under the full moon - wars for survival, wars for dominance. In the desert, as the varghest tracks its prey, as the fennec hides until the light of day breaks, there are those which will lose, and those who will win. But it is not just in the desert - throughout Thedas, lives are lost in the name of survival. From the tiniest insects that eat and breed and die without a single thought as to the larger questions, to the greatest leaders and thinkers of the age - they all fight. All want to survive the longest, to stand the test of time.

In the Fade, there is no time. There is only being and not-being. Many have been trapped there, relegated to an existence devoid of time. Prisoners, some - those who wanted so much they forgot what they needed, those who sought retribution and found only pain, those who would not wake. But the Fade knows no value, knows no good or evil, only that which is. Faith and Desire, Justice and Rage, Compassion and Pride; all wheels within wheels, all the same and yet not. They love the light that sentience brings, but they do not understand the shift and lilt of emotion that each being possesses at its very core. Some seek it. Some will inhabit the bodies of mortals, to understand better what it is that drives the sentient along, and some eschew it.

The gods are not like this. The Old Gods, the Maker, the Creators and Forgotten Ones. Some slumber, a dream within a dream; some, having given the best gift to the mortal world only to have it thrown back in their faces, now pretend aloofness to the affairs of the mortal realm. But those which had no choice in their captivity behind the Veil crave the touch of the sentient - they cluster around the edges of it, hands and eyes and lips pressed close to the existence of these others. And he who still walks among these mortals laughs, and knows that the truth is always more complex than the tales would have us believe.

**Author's Note:**

> Come holler at us on Tumblr!  
> [LittlexAbyss](littlexabyss.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> [Dee](http://www.dichotomous-dragon.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


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